


Intoxication

by towardsmorning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/towardsmorning/pseuds/towardsmorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>(Prompt: Sherlock shaving Mycroft with a straight razor and sexual tension.)</i>
</p><p>Trust feels intoxicating, Sherlock realises for the first time in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intoxication

"Up."

Sherlock doesn't let his fingers touch skin, not quite, but Mycroft tilts his head obligingly at the command anyway. Perhaps just a shade further than is strictly necessary, Sherlock thinks, calmly setting the blade against Mycroft's throat. It's new, Sherlock can tell, it needs mellowing still- there's the faintest whisper of 'too sharp' about it. The room is filled with a practically audible hiss as the razor glides down the expanse of neck bared at him. Back up again, free hand pushing the skin up this time. Repeat.

Mycroft is so vulnerable here. Mycroft is never vulnerable. The paradox is fascinating. Just one slip...

He finishes the neck but not the thought and does touch this time, two fingers on the side of a jaw to bring the two of them back to eye level. The utter lack of anything, let alone fear, in the other man's eyes makes his breath catch, his jaw clench, his fingers still.

Trust. Trust feels intoxicating, Sherlock realises for the first time in his life as he suddenly pulls the skin taut and continues. Leans in, under the still-just-about-holding excuse of keeping track of his work, the almost-plausible idea of being absorbed in that and not the feeling of someone pliable under his razor-wielding hands who doesn't mind in the slightest. The need to get closer to that trust, as though it's caught in Mycroft's skin and will bleed over to Sherlock if he just sticks nearby.

He continues on that spot for some time, almost mechanical, definitely precise. Eventually, Mycroft speaks, his voice quiet and amused and everything Sherlock would really rather it wasn't.

(Though there's an undertone he's afraid to admit he really doesn't mind at all, something a little further below than the amusement and a little deeper than the near-silence of his murmur. Ah.)

"If you please?"

Sherlock makes sure to sigh irritably before moving on, pushing on the skin harder than strictly necessary this time. Mycroft does not object. He leans even closer. Mycroft still does not object. Sherlock is knelt in front of the sitting man, and he becomes aware of a leg draped around his back suddenly.

Sherlock definitely does not object.

When he's finally done, Sherlock smoothes his hands over Mycroft's face and thinks, I did this. Not one slip. Trust is still intoxicating. Sherlock has been known to do dreadfully ill-informed things under the influence, he thinks to himself distantly, smoothing a fleck of white away with his thumb.

Mycroft smiles, and mirrors the action.


End file.
